Fallout
by hatondog
Summary: Sherlock may have finally pushed Sally Donavan too far. Will it cost him his life? One shot.


"C'mon, Donavan," a rough voice wheedled. "You know it's our only option. Hell, I don't like it either. I don't like _him_ any better than you do, but I didn't want it to come to this. Yet here we are, and we haven't got any other choice. It's the best chance we have. We have to take it."

Sally Donavan cradled her injured arm against her chest. Her shoulder was throbbing, quite possibly dislocated. The man speaking was responsible for it, but was doing his best to pretend the damage was nothing more than a misunderstanding between friends.

He was a cop, just like her. A half hour before, they'd entered what Sally had believed to be a potential crime scene. Which it was, although the criminals weren't who she'd expected to catch. They were two of Scotland Yard's finest.

The realization that men she considered to be her soldiers-in-arms were corrupt to the bone was enough to turn her stomach. They'd sunk to taking bribes in exchange for doing their jobs, for protecting businesses within their jurisdiction. That much was clear, and Sally suspected it wasn't all. Cops who would turn on the people they were meant to serve wouldn't hesitate to deal outside the lines in other ways. Drug running was a distinct and horrifying possibility.

What made it worse, though, was that _he'd_ known. He'd even warned her, in his gaggingly condescending way. Yet she'd disregarded the information, refusing to believe it could be anything more than the snide insinuations of someone who had less than no respect for the Yard and its officers. But he'd been right, which meant that she was almost as culpable for the situation they found themselves in now as the bent cops who had the drop on her.

Her eyes slid to Sherlock Holmes, who was lying against a nearby wall. Blood seeped from a nasty wound on his forehead. His breathing was raspy, suggesting a broken rib, if not something worse. Another man stood next to him, holding a gun to Sherlock's head.

Sherlock had caught them, and she'd been caught in the disaster which ensued from trusting her colleagues over the man she thought of as a freak. He'd always treated her as lesser although, in fairness, it was how he treated nearly everyone. Everyone except his confoundingly loyal friend, John Watson. John, who was unfortunately away for the bank holiday. John, who would have tempered Sherlock's more contemptuous leanings, dampened the superior attitude which made Sally's blood boil. Which, apparently, also made her better judgment desert her.

In truth, the freak's evidence _had_ been compelling. He hadn't accused Scotland Yard _per se_ , but it wasn't all that difficult to connect the dots. Businesses near St. James had experienced a sharp increase in vandalism and theft. Many of their proprietors had been strangely unwilling to cooperate in the investigations which followed, with excuses ranging from "must be rowdy teenagers" to "it's just the cost of doing business." No insurance claims were made by any of them. When pressed, there had been a look in their eyes…with a sudden thought, Sally flinched.

She knew that look. It was resignation, fear and sadness. The look people had when they were powerless to respond when their lives went massively pear-shaped. It was one she had never expected to see on the face of Sherlock Holmes, but there it was in his oddly-colored eyes.

"He thinks I'll do it," she thought, a chill running along her spine.

"Sal," beseeched the man holding the gun to Sherlock's head, one George Taylor. "We're running out of time. Think about all the hurt this arsehole has dumped on you over the years. All the times he made you—made us all—look like tits." The man snorted. "We might all be DIs by now, if not for him. Lestrade, the other higher-ups, they all think our clearance rate is down to the freak here. Never mind the years of back-breaking work we put in making them look good. Times we slaved over evidence, spent weeks away from our families, only to have Holmes swoop in at the last minute and take all the credit."

"He's wrong," the unwelcome thought rose up in Sally's mind. "Sherlock never took credit." She couldn't look at Taylor. Her eyes were locked on Sherlock's despite her best efforts to pull them away. It didn't register that she was thinking of him by his first name, perhaps for only time in their acquaintance.

"We do this, he's out of all our lives. That'll be nothing but a blessing, especially for you. And what a blessing it'll be."

"Yeah," interjected Toby Jackman, the man standing by Sally. "There's more than 300,000 pounds here for us to split between us, with an endless stream of more on its way if we walk now." Jackman moved right up next to her. "We'll all be set for life even if we never rise above Sargent…and all it will take is to make sure that our favorite psychopath can't talk." Jackman leaned in. "You've said it yourself. One day, he'll snap and take people with him. Just consider this to be our civic duty."

Taylor pressed the barrel of the gun against Sherlock's ear. Sherlock didn't move, instead staring intently into Sally's eyes. Whatever he found there wasn't what he'd hoped. His eyelids slowly closed and he pulled in on himself slightly.

"Bracing himself," thought Sally. She finally was able to look away, first at Taylor then at Jackman. Jagged pain shot up her arm, a physical reminder that she was unable to do anything useful to fight her way out of the situation. She closed her eyes, unconsciously mirroring Sherlock.

"C'mon, Sally," growled Jackman. "A world without Sherlock Holmes, and this time he stays gone. Isn't that something we all should want? Your life will be nothing but better for it if you help us. But if you don't, well…" The threat was clear.

Sally shuddered, then opened her eyes and took a deep breath to speak.

 _Two Days Prior_

"Idiot," growled Sherlock. "You're an imbecile. You think because someone has a badge that they're above reproach. And you're willing to do anything to preserve that illusion, even when it means looking away when it would be clear to a child that someone in authority is behind these crimes."

Sally saw red.

"You _shite_ ," she hissed. "You've had it out for the police ever since you decided to fly off the roof of Bart's. Made it look like your death was all our fault, then popped back up like the snake you are to help heads roll." She marched up to Sherlock in an attempt at intimidation, notwithstanding the half foot difference in height between them. "Lestrade backed you up and nearly lost his job for it. The Commissioner _did_ get canned and Anderson lost the plot."

Anderson yelped in protest, but Sally ignored him. He'd had his job back for several months, despite having been widely considered to have gone round the bend in his defense of Sherlock after the latter's fake suicide. He and Sally no longer saw eye to eye on much of anything—she figured him for a Sherlock sycophant and he thought of her as a vindictive…well, better he keep that sort of language to himself.

"So you think I'm trying to pin these losses on the police because, what? I need revenge?" Sherlock's words became clipped and his accent more posh, a sure sign that he was barely retaining control. "Need I remind you, Sargent, that I didn't really throw myself off a roof in despair over your meritless accusations against me. In fact, nothing I did—nothing I _do_ —has the slightest thing to do with you." Leaning over Sally, Sherlock used his physical presence as a gesture of dominance. He spit out the words which followed. "You are simply not worth my time."

Silence reverberated through the room. Lestrade, who had entered just in time to hear Sherlock's proclamation, stopped in his tracks. Despite his recent hero worship for Sherlock, Anderson's jaw dropped and he shook his head.

But Sally didn't move. For several long moments, she and Sherlock stared at one another, both breathing slightly harder than usual. Then her arm snapped back and she slapped him, hard.

"Donavan!" yelled Lestrade, but Sherlock held his hand up to forestall any further response from her boss. He looked down at Sally and smiled.

"See, police do break the rules," Sherlock said softly. "Gotcha." With a huff of outrage, Sally spun on her heel, pushed past Anderson and stalked from the room.

 _Now_

The scene from the Yard played out in Sally's mind as Jackman's words rang in her ears. She raised her eyes and took a slow look around the room. With a deep breath, she spoke.

"Gotcha," she said.

Shots rang out. People dressed in black suits seemingly appeared from the walls around Taylor and Jackman, who lay on the ground nursing wounds to their legs. Sally strained to see Sherlock. He was so protected that it wasn't possible to confirm if he'd been shot when all hell had broken loose.

"Sargent Donavan," came a calm, silky voice. Sally turned toward the incongruous sight of a well-dressed man in a three-piece suit standing at her side. "I am Mycroft Holmes. I can assure you that this situation is under control. Might I suggest that you go with one of my men to be seen for that injury to your arm?"

The words were phrased as a request, but Sally understood that there was no question in them. She was being dismissed.

"Holmes?" she asked. Mycroft nodded. Sally inclined her head toward Sherlock. "Is he all right?"

Mycroft looked at Sally without speaking. She had the distinct impression that she was being analyzed like a specimen under a microscope. Then he nodded, apparently satisfied at what he saw.

"He will be. Your colleague didn't have the opportunity to put a bullet in Sherlock's brain as intended." Sally winced at the reference.

"He isn't my colleague. Not anymore," she said firmly.

"No, indeed not," responded Mycroft. "If you will excuse me, I need to speak with my brother."

Sally allowed herself to be led away. Her legs were weak and her body was flooded with relief. She swiped her good hand over her face as the realization struck that the emotion wasn't for herself alone. Sherlock was alive and she was glad. How in the hell had _that_ happened?

 _Two Days Later_

Arm resting in a sling, Sally stood in the lobby of the Royal London Hospital as its lobby elevator opened. Sherlock was slumped like a sulky child in a wheelchair as a beleaguered-looking nurse pushed him toward the exit. He straightened when he saw Sally and put up a hand to signal a stop as they reached her side.

"Sally," he said cautiously, leaping from the chair. The nurse protested but was waved off. Having had enough of her patient for the day, she went away without much fuss.

"Fre-," Sally began then changed course. "Sherlock. You ok?"

His eyebrows raised. "Of course. I'm always ok."

Sally rolled her eyes. "Most people would consider broken ribs and a concussion to be less than ok," she said.

"I'm not most people," Sherlock answered.

"Isn't that the truth," Sally muttered. She mentally shook herself and tried again. "What I mean is…" The words stuck in her throat but broke free. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Sherlock asked without hesitation.

"For everything that happened. For you getting hurt. For…". Sally stiffened but pushed ahead. "For not listening to you when you suggested it could be cops behind all the thefts."

Sherlock shrugged. "All police are morons when it comes to seeing the worst in each other," he observed. "And in themselves."

Sally gritted her teeth. The urge to hit him again surfaced, but she was determined to have her say.

"You thought I was going to let them kill you. You really thought I'd do that."

"No, I didn't," Sherlock denied.

"Yeah, you did. I could tell by the look on your face," Sally said, skin prickling at the memory.

"No, I didn't think that you would _let_ them kill me. If you'd really had a choice, you would have stopped them. I just didn't think that path was open to you. As you'll recall, we didn't have a lot of options at hand."

"But I don't like you. Never have. Why would you think I'd save your life?" Sally said, incredulous.

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock said, then grinned.

Sally stared. The man before her looked entirely different when he truly smiled, something she'd never seen directed at her. He looked human, almost appealing.

"And you're a psychopath," she said, then interrupted Sherlock's response. "No, wait," she smiled. "A high functioning sociopath."

"Just so," Sherlock said, still smiling. Sally laughed and followed him to the door.

 _End._

 _Author's Note_ _:_ I'm American and have no idea if British hospitals make a practice of wheeling their patients to the sidewalk. Ours do, whether you were in for open heart surgery or something minor. I suspect it's more to avoid lawsuits for people falling on their faces in the building than for patient care. But although it's nonetheless nice to be helped out, I'm pretty sure Sherlock wouldn't see it that way. He'd probably make a run for it long before reaching the lobby.


End file.
